The Sting

From: Charles Chessher

Picture: Matt

Published in: Honcho, December 1991

All in the line of duty ...

_____


The department had used him as bait once too often. When they approached Chris Dawson again, he balked. "Why me?" Leaning forward, the police rookie probed Sergeant Bailey's eyes for clues. "Wha'd I do to deserve this?"

"Look, Dawson, this ain't my gig, okay?" Bailey crammed an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth and leaned against the front of his desk. He rested his beefy fingers on his crotch, which protruded admirably. Then he met Chris Dawson's gaze with eyes hardened by fifteen years of police work. "Orders from above."

"The captain?"

"Higher. Much higher."

"The chief?"

Bailey nodded. "The D.A. is puttin' the squeeze on the department again. Elections'll be comin' up in a couple of months."

"Shit." The blond rookie cop sank back against the office chair and sighed. That time of year already! He caught his boss's chestnut-colored eyes again. "I didn't get credit for the last operation, did I?"

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"I'm being groomed for the queer detail, right? If that ain't punishment, I'd like to know what is!"

"Hell, some of your cohorts would give a nut for a chance like this," Bailey snarled and shook his head in disgust. "Did you ever consider we need you for this sting? You got a damn good reputation, Dawson. Don't spoil it now."

"Why the fuck can't you put me on somethin' else, Sarge? I'd be great in the drug unit. I'm gettin' typecast."

"Hell, nobody really believes you're queer, if that's what you're thinkin'."

"Yeah? Well, I ain't so sure."

"Look, we don't need you on the drug detail. The feds got that covered-with the resources to back it up. You got a good-lookin' mug, Dawson. I hear your baby-blues send them queer boys reeling."

Chris Dawson snorted and rested his head in the palms of his hands. He shook his head in disgust.

"You can help us snare some of 'em. Like before."

The rookie looked back up at his immediate supervisor. "They're ..." He scratched at his hair, which had been sheared to a burr. "They're just people, dammit! Seems to me this city has a lot more serious--"

"You turning liberal, Dawson?" Bailey plucked the cigar from his mouth and leaned closer, curling his lips into a snarl. "I don't need no bleedin' hearts in my unit, hear?" He spat out the words, each louder than the last. "The D.A. wants some headlines before the elections--or else."

"And if I refuse the assignment?"

"It won't look good in your file." The bulky, forty-year-old desk sergeant walked to the other side of his desk and sank into the black leather chair. "It won't look good at all."

Dawson was caught between a rock and a hard place, and the twenty-three year old rookie didn't like the feeling. He could refuse the assignment and kiss his chances for a promotion to the uniformed detective unit goodbye. Or he could cooperate and suffer--like before. But no doubt his conscience would gnaw at him again and he'd get that creeping pain in his stomach. Like when he'd busted the dudes in the "Fruit Loop" sting.

Peg would be displeased no matter what. She was headstrong, his long-legged wife of eleven months. If she'd had her way, he'd be out of police work entirely. She hadn't figured out that police work was already in his blood. If anything, she'd go before the force would.

Dawson hadn't bothered to tell her, for example, that already he had his career path charted in his mind: detective, inspector, assistant chief and finally, if things worked out as he hoped, chief. He and Peg did agree on one thing: the detective unit would be a hell of a lot safer than patrolling the streets or working undercover. But he'd have to be promoted to be eligible for detective rank. One last sting could be his ticket out of undercover. Peg knew that. Still, she'd be royally pissed that he'd be peddling his wares to the gay community. Again.

- - -

"Why are you so quiet?" Peg asked during dinner.

"Just thinking." Chris shrugged his brawny shoulders.

"Okay, out with it." His wife leaned forward.

"Huh?"

"Give it to me straight."

He drummed his fingers against the table. "I have to go undercover again."

"Like before?" She glowered at him.

He nodded.

"How much longer do you have to do this before those jerks promote you?"

"There's more competition nowadays, Peg. You know that."

"It's time you considered doing something else."

"I told you before. I don't know anything about interior design."

"I'd teach you."

"All those fairies would wear thin, quick."

She smiled wryly. "And they're not now?"

"Touché," he replied sheepishly.

"I'll think about it, okay?"

"Sure." She clanked her glass against the table.

"I promise."

She glowered at him and took another drink.

- - -

He was wired, and that made Dawson nervous because he had to worry about the wires poking through his T-shirt if he moved the wrong way. He'd been instructed to cruise the southern tip of sixty-acre Pease Park, which was near downtown. In addition to homosexuals, the area was frequented by all manner of "undesirables," including drug dealers, street people, and winos. Dawson loitered in sight of the tea rooms near some picnic tables, just off the main running path.

As the afternoon wore on, the good-looking rookie handled his responsibilities dispassionately and with aplomb. He was a professional and, by God, his career destination was big-time police work. He had put his emotions on idle and already he'd snared three men in his beefcake trap.

Lolling on a park bench during a lull, Dawson extended his bronzed, muscular legs and thrust his crotch upward for maximum effect. He closed his eyes and arched his head toward the sky to catch the summer rays. The warmth of the sun set his mind adrift. Maybe he should let himself go, quit working out at the gym, even gain a beer gut. Maybe then they'd quit asking him to show off his stuff.

Opening his eyes, the rookie looked down at his own sculpted physique. Damn, he was one hot motherfucker! The thought triggered a sudden dick spasm, and Dawson knew he couldn't wean himself from the attention, the admiring rubber-neck glances his body gained from men and women alike. Those grueling three-hour workouts at the gym--sure, he could give those up, no problem. But the results, no way! He'd worked too hard sculpting a body that--if working undercover hadn't precluded it--would do the city's annual police calendar proud.

Suddenly something happened to dispel Dawson's reverie. Something he'd never have expected.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dawson spotted two men approaching from the parking lot. They walked right up to him, like they knew him or something. They shot the shit for a few minutes, then introduced themselves.

One of the dudes was larger than the other. The smaller man was a redhead with a wiry build. He called himself Greg. Pete, the other dude, was dark-haired and bulky and he looked to be over six feet tall. Neither seemed queer. But why else would they be standing there, talking with him? They were both older than he. Mid-thirties to early forties, Dawson guessed.

He tried not to, but after a while Dawson grew to like the dudes. He almost forgot he was in the park to arrest queers so the D.A. could get re-elected. Maybe they wouldn't come on to him. But their eyes lingered in places where straight dudes usually don't. And the larger dude, the one who called himself Pete, kept scratching his crotch. Dawson hoped the guy had jock itch or something. He'd already decided he didn't want to arrest them.

When Greg planted one foot on the park bench, Dawson had a bird's-eye view of the redhead's crotch. Pete stood on the other side of him, and both men were peering down at him, leering. Suddenly, Dawson felt his own cock pulse, and he flinched. His heart pounded. Acid dripped in his stomach. What the fuck was happening? Was this guilt by association or something? He'd heard if you play a role too long undercover you start to identify with it. But until now he'd never believed it. Maybe these two dudes who didn't seem queer knew something he didn't. Could see something he couldn't.

"We got an apartment near here," Pete spat out. "Wanna come over? Down a couple of beers? Shoot the shit?"

Dawson bristled. No blatant sexual solicitation, but damn close. Would the detectives listening at the other end of the wire interpret the dark-haired dude's offer as such? The detectives were stationed with the recording equipment in the back of a van parked some fifty yards away. Were they nudging each other knowingly at this very instant?

"I'm game," Dawson finally said to Pete.

Pete smiled, nudging his redheaded friend in the ribs.

Dawson turned off the sound to the wire by pretending to scratch his crotch. He looked from Pete to Greg, then toward Pete again as he rose from the bench. "You lead the way."

As the trio passed the van on the way to Pete and Greg's apartment, Dawson knew the detectives would be scrambling. He and the two dudes he'd just met would be long gone by the time the detectives figured out he'd purposely turned off the sound.

Pete and Greg had a small apartment in a complex two blocks from the park. "Take off a load," Pete suggested, directing Dawson to an overstuffed dark blue couch. The hunky brunet sat beside him. Then Greg plopped down in a chair on the other side of the blond stranger.

"Lived in the city long?" Greg asked the undercover cop.

"Couple of years. You?"

"The same."

"What about you?" Dawson asked, looking over at Pete. "How long you lived here?"

"Too damn long. Tryin' to get me a gig together so I can get the fuck outta this place."

"Know what you mean," Dawson said, laughing. "Place can be a downer sometimes."

When the rookie cop took a chug form his beer bottle, the very first swallow went to his head. "Good brew," he said, his heart pounding fast and furious.

The three started talking some more then, and Dawson's heart pounded harder. Damn! He was getting zonked--fast! His ears rang. The room swirled. The dudes leered. He closed his eyes, and his dick pulsed again--harder this time, and more than once. Suddenly, Chris Dawson felt out of control. Was it his imagination? He looked down at his crotch and drew back in horror. He'd sprung a hard-on. An undeniable, steel-hard boner!

"You got two experts here who can take care of that for you," Pete offered, reaching out for Dawson's crotch.

"That's right," Greg added, stretching to touch him, too.

At least he'd had the presence of mind earlier, while he was in the john, to stuff the wires in his shoe. The blond cop looked wide-eyed from Pete to Greg, then back to Pete. His mouth slackened. "Look, this is not--"

Greg smothered Dawson's words with a kiss while Pete fumbled inside the cop's running shorts. Finally, locating the treasure, he pulled the blond's dick and balls free.

"You got a big dick--like me," Pete remarked.

Greg drew away from Dawson's mouth and looked. "Big balls, too! Some damn basket for such a young dude!"

Dawson's mind was still swirling as the two men lifted him from the couch to the floor. He was too weak to resist, and they quickly stripped him. Except for his shoes.

When Pete reached to untie the running shoes, the cop bolted upright. "Leave them on, okay? I like to leave them on."

"Sure thing, dude," Pete said, raising an eyebrow. "Whatever turns you on."

As the two men worked him over, Dawson tried to relax, yet the tension mounted. Finally, he devised a mental key. In his mind he repeated: in the line of duty, in the line of duty, in the line ... a silent chant.

Greg took the cop's throbbing cock in his mouth while Pete spat in his own hand and stuck his finger in Dawson's butthole to loosen it. After a few moments, the redhead drew his mouth away. Then he thrust his own dick toward the blond's mouth. "Suck it, dude."

Dawson hadn't had a dick in his mouth since he had been a college kid, but he warmed up to the challenge directly. Greg and Dawson sucked each other's cock while Pete jacked himself with one hand and played with the blond's quivering hole with the other. Then Dawson stopped sucking Greg's dick long enough to look up at Pete.

The dude would make one fine cop, for sure! Broad shoulders and muscular arms. A dark brown mat of hair on his upper chest narrowed to a line that plunged to a flat stomach rippled by muscle.

Dawson could smell the man-scent of Greg's hot dick. He looked up to see the gaping pee-slit lunging at him. "Take my cock back in your mouth," Greg demanded, his voice raspy with desire.

Dawson complied, and while he was sucking the redhead's dick, he felt Pete lift his legs off the floor. The pleasure was intense now, and Dawson realized for the first time the narrow line between pleasure and pain. Dawson flinched as Pete's huge erection probed his butthole, but Greg pinned his arms against the floor and continued sucking Dawson's cock. A menagerie of intense images and sensations shot through Dawson's mind, and then his body, rapid as an assassin's bullets. He gave of himself like he never thought possible, letting go, floating to a plane where pleasure was unceasing, guilt a hazy memory.

They'd conquered his resistance, and his body was the victor's spoils. He was theirs now, duty-bound to please. He let his cock swell in Greg's hungry mouth. Pete was inside him, then, and Dawson gasped. He dug his fingers into Greg's arms, taking a deep breath and willing the pain to subside. But Pete pushed further, and the cop gasped again. "Oh, man!" For an instant he doubted he could endure it. Yet he had to. He was theirs.

Then it changed. He'd crossed the line, and the pain softened to pleasure. Indescribable pleasure. Pleasure that cascaded throughout his entire body. Dawson sighed as the two men worked him over. Then the cop found himself throttling Greg's cock and balls with his tongue.

He couldn't go on much longer. It felt too damn good. Pete had thrust inside him five, six times and already Dawson was about to lose it. Gasping again, Dawson sighed and let loose his load, slamming his cum inside the redhead's mouth; an instant later, the redhead came in Dawson's mouth.

Greg's cum was sweet--just a hint of muskiness. Dawson gulped, and Pete fucked him harder then. Sweat dripped from Pete's underarms. Finally, Pete gasped, "Oh, sonuvabitch!" Then Pete arched his head toward the ceiling as he shot his hot juice inside the cop's squeaky-tight butthole.

- - -

After Dawson left, Pete opened the doors to the wet bar and tested the equipment while Greg looked on.

"Think we got him?" Greg asked.

"Looks like it was working."

"That closet case needed it bad, didn't he?"

"I'll say. Hottest damn butt I've had in a while. A long fuckin' while! Dora, she don't give me none from the rear door, if you know what I mean." He elbowed his partner and sniggered. "You think he can lead us to something bigger?"

"The queer dude? You bet! Hell, they all do drugs, 'cause they're so unhappy and all."

"So they say. But it better be big. Washington will want to see some results from all this money we're spending."

"They'll get their money's worth."

Grinning wryly, the larger man with the code name Pete turned to look at his partner. "How about your ole lady? She ever give you any butt?"

"Any damn thing I want," he lied.

- - -

Inside the Dawson condo, Peg put the finishing touches on her husband's favorite meal. She never knew exactly when Chris would walk in the door, so she'd learned to keep her meals simmering. Humming softly to herself, she padded to the dining area and dimmed the lights, then brought out the candles. They would make love that evening. She'd see to it!

- - -

Driving home, Chris Dawson was still reeling from his sexual encounter with the two men from the park. Perhaps it had been a dream. Yet he knew better. The sex part had seemed real. All too real. His ass was still hot from Pete's cock, and his own prick continued to throb from Greg's suck-fest. Suddenly, an irresistible urge came over him. He knew he had to shoot again. He had to!

Dawson looked at his watch: 8:15 p.m., with dusk imminent. The parks were relatively empty this time of evening. The joggers would have gone home to replenish burned calories. The cruisers would come out later, when darkness fell. He stopped the unmarked police car in a secluded area at Pease Park. He sat quietly for a few moments. No one was around. Slowly, he pulled his running shorts down so he could get to his cock and balls. He looked down. Damn, he had a good set of equipment!

Dawson wouldn't need to jack off long to reach a climax. In his mind, he relived the afternoon's sex encounter with the two good-looking dudes, embellished it even. Finally, he felt his balls surge. As he slammed his load against the floorboard, the young cop found himself repeatedly mouthing one word from the chant he'd used earlier to calm himself: Duty! Duty! Duty!

Chris Dawson cleaned himself off with a towel from his workout bag. Suddenly he knew damn well he had to have dick in his butt again. He had to!